Focus
by Kitty Ryan
Summary: A tale set between Emperor Mage and Realms of the Gods: complete with a full cast of cats, kittens, a clerk Killer Unicorns, a bet between friends, a very angry Numair, and a certain court artist. In the end, Numair really DOES owe Volney Rain.
1. Prologue

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Focus

Kitty Ryan 

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Author's note: It's the big re-write! Believe it or not, Kitty's got off her arse and started to go somewhere with this thing. Chapter six is well in the works, thanks to the support of darling people such as Ali Young, Sarah Parker, Lea Roded, Kat Downward, Anita Law, A Girl Called Candice and all my patient reviewers at ff.net. You've been wonders, all of you. 

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To the reader, before they begin:

This is a story set in Corus, Tortall, after a certain Wildmage and her teacher have returned from Carthak --six months before they are featured in a book known as The Realms of the Gods. Please, enjoy. And take note of the disclaimer at the bottom. 

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Prologue:

An awful lot happened, one clear late autumn day. 

In the village of Snowsdale, Galla, Iriny Almensri found she was pregnant when she looked into the main well. In the palace of Tortall, a woman with a bet to settle skulked the corridors, and in the Middle City, Corus, a brilliant artist decided to pick up a book on Doi cookery.

And all the while, at the foot of a rickety monolith, there was Numair Salmalìn. Numair Salmalìn, mage to the Tortallan realm, standing out in the cold and the wind - giving a sigh of exasperation. With more than a touch of fear at its centre.

"Daine, if you so much as _dream _of attempting this…this _lunacy _everagain then I'll just be compelled to--"

"To what?" Daine, for one of the first times in her almost sixteen years, grinned down at her teacher--instead of up. The reason for this was not because of any growth spurt, but was due to the extra height lent to her from standing on top of Balor's Needle. On top of _that_ structure, anyone could be tall. 

Numair groaned, running nervous hands through his mane of black hair, which--if he had to go through anything like this again--would go white. He was certain of that. Daine was standing very high up on the Needle, perched precariously on the dilapidated mistake of an outer staircase, the wind whipping her smoky brown curls into a worse tangle then usual--her face flushed. As Numair stared at her, he felt that white threads were beginning already.

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All this for a kitten! He thought despairingly. _A none-too-intelligent kitten that decided to climb up the needle, and then decided it couldn't climb down. _

Numair remembered the conversation he'd had with Daine that morning. One of the palace's many rat-catchers - in this case a mother cat - had come to her in the middle of a lesson ("_Killer Unicorns and their Various Habits"_) in obvious distress. It seemed that the one of her offspring--the smallest one, and obviously the last in line when the brains had been handed out--had gone exploring. Resulting in its being hopelessly stuck atop Balors Needle. 

Of course, Daine had insisted that she had to go after "the poor little thing." That "it would get blown away if nothing was done about it," and, of course, he had tried to dissuade her--saying that _she'd _be the one 'blown away'; to no avail. That was always how it went.

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That cat had seven other kittens! Numair's thoughts flashed angrily across his mind as he watched the girl lurching in the wind. _One less wouldn't make that much difference._

* * *

Veralidaine Sarrasri swore violently as the wind knocked her sideways, she felt that things were not going very well. The animal was not moving an inch. 

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Paw brother, Daine called out with her mind. _Come out, you won't get blown away. I'm here_

Scared! The little grey creature was shaking, meowing pitifully. Its voice, even in her mind, was frantic. _If I move then I'll fall! It's too high up! I don't _like _being too high up! I want my mama! _

Daine sighed--It was going to be a long day. _If you come to me, then you'll have your Mama, sweetling._

The kitten was crouched, back facing the needle against a railing, wind buffeting it from all directions. The dilemma being that he was on the opposite side of the railing from Daine, only the thin, rotting bit of wood he was standing on keeping him from a dreadful fall and death on the ground.

It would have been a lot easier for Daine if the kitten had plucked up its courage and crawled to the other side of the railing, where Daine would have picked him up and him taken back to the safety and solidarity of the ground. But this kitten wasn't courageous. It was scared, and wasn't going to move.

So, Muttering an oath against all inquisitive felines, Daine slowly got down on hands and knees--wincing as splinters entered her palms. 

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Don't worry, paw brother, she sent, trying to bathe the kitten in reassurance. _I'm coming. Just stay--_

"What in the name of _Mithros_ are you _doing_? A furious voice decided to interrupt her narrative. 

A very angry Numair was standing at the foot of the needle--pale and sweating. Daine didn't look up, didn't answer; she couldn't afford to lose her concentration. Slowly, she crawled under the railing, reaching for the kitten…

Numair glared at Daine, feeling horribly frightened. What the hell was she doing up there? Why was she on hands and knees on the other side of the railing, nothing to protect her if she…the horrible thought crept into Numair's mind. _If she fell._

Daine, eyes half closed against the wind, grabbed the kitten by the scruff of its neck--and slipped.

* * *

The whole thing couldn't have lasted for more then a few seconds. But to Numair at least, looking back, everything seemed tinted green and in some terrible slow motion. There was a scream from above his head, and the next thing he knew, Daine was falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling…

The mage threw out a net of his power, desperate, trying to slow her down.

Down. 

Down.

Down…

The web tightened, invisible lines connecting him to her, or it might have been her to him. Whatever the case, Daine continued to spiral, a small ball of grey fluff clinging to her arm, its eyes yellow and terrified. Down, they fell.

Stop.

Until Daine drifted gently to the ground at the foot of the needle.

Numair sprinted towards her, cloak flapping. He knelt at her side, and stroked her hair. The kitten, forgotten and bruised, let go of Daine's arm, hissed, bit Numair on the finger, and fled. 

"Ungrateful little mongrel!" Numair glared after the animal, nursed his finger, and waited for Daine to wake. 

* * *

"Wha'--?" The girl blinked stupidly against the light, conscious again. "Numair?"

"Daine?"

Where am I, Numair? Why--? How--?" Remembrance dawned. "Numair! Where's the kitten?"

"The _kitten_?" Numair couldn't believe his ears. "You're asking about the _kitten_?" He glared at her, and she noticed that his voice was cracked. You _fiend_! You little fiend! Is it a hobby of yours to try and give me heart attacks? If it is, then you're a bloody _professional_, Magelet."

Numair started to pace. "You nearly kill yourself, fall off the Needle, frighten me out of my wits and all you can think off is the _kitten_, Gods _preserve_ me from," a hundred emotions crossed Numair's face. "From _sentimental females_!"

Daine glared at him.

"The thing is perfectly safe, Magelet," Numair said, wearily. "It ran off a few minutes ago. And have I mentioned that I _forbid_ you to do anything like this again? If you _do _I'll-"

"You'll trap me in the deepest glacier known to man and leave me there, Numair." Daine stood up, feeling slightly shaky. "I know you. But, please, could I catch my breath first, before you make me lose it again?"

Numair gathered her up into a hug. His eyes were wet, and he could feel her trembling in his arms; the fall must have shocked her more than he'd realized. _I wonder, what if…? _No, there were no what ifs here. Numair shoved suddenly treacherous thoughts away. _Just a hug between friends. Nothing more, nothing less._ He broke the embrace, and looked away. He swallowed, squeezed Daine's hand, and strode off.

Daine watched him go. Now she felt confused and twice as shaky as before. That hug had been unbearably close, yet, somehow, safe. The girl had no idea if she should be insulted, or if she should sing. 

Shaking her head over her own foolishness, Daine set off in the other direction. Towards her room.

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Fin

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Disclaimer: The characters Numair Salmalìn, Veralidaine Sarrassri, Alanna the Lioness, Onua Chamtong, and any other's I shall mention in later disclaimers, are the property of Tamora Pierce. The names and general direction of the characters Perin and Volney Rain belong to Tamora Pierce. Their personalities however - as they most definitely have them, but not in any genuine literary publication - are mine until I am officially notified to the contrary. Tortall and surrounding lands belong to Tamora Pierce, as do any divinities unless stated in future disclaimers. Thank you for your time


	2. Chapter One: The Clerk

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Chapter One: The Clerk.

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Don't let him see me. Don't let him see me. Don't--

"Daine! _Just _the vision I've longed to see."

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Odds Bobs! He's seen me. Since when _have I been a vision? I muck out _stables_! _

Fate does strange and mysterious things to those under her care. She guides chosen ones on terrible quests, gambles with Destiny with stakes of mortal lives, and decided that Daine, still recovering from falling off the Needle, would run into Perin the clerk on the way back to her room. 

The young woman was none-too-pleased with the decision.

The last thing she wanted to do right that instant was try to make polite conversation with an adolescent whose eyes always seemed to stray from her face to rest on other significant parts of her body. But Daine swallowed down her irritation, and schooled herself to be polite. The young man's attentions were harmless enough, and his dedication was quite flattering when she thought about it. 

You look perfectly radiant this morning," Perin was saying, "don't get me wrong--you look gorgeous all the time, but today in particular your beauty strikes me anew."

"Attempting poetry, Perin?"

  
"For you, I would try anything."

Daine smiled thinly. "Some other time, perhaps," she said, and turned on her heel. She should have known he would grab her arm.

"Don't _go_, Daine!" Pale brown eyes locked to blue-grey, imploring. "Walk with me. We were having _such_ a nice conversation."

"We were?" Hurriedly, Daine checked herself. "I mean," she said, "I'm just that bit tired, you see, and, as much as I'd like to--"

"Please?"

Daine sighed. "All right," she said.

"_Thank _y--"

"But," Daine looked the young man full in the face. "Let go of my arm."

It was--Daine feared--going to be a long afternoon.

* * *

Numair, meanwhile, had returned to his own rooms, feeling like he was thirty going on eighty-nine. 

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This sort of thing is no good for me. 

Tiredly, he sank into the nearest chair. A clock ticked, something exploded in the students' quarters, he could hear Rider trainees and Pages trying to kill each other on the practise courts. Numair looked at his desk. It was a good desk. A big one with a strong, beautiful grain, perfect for arcane experiments and the display of various magical paraphernalia. Idly, Numair drummed his fingers on it, feeling the scorch marks beneath them. A shame it took up so much room. Very impractical. But practicality had never the Mage's forte. 

It was in this environment that Numair Salmalìn began to think about his life. 

To anyone's mind, thus far it had been a full one. There was the essential evil overlord, and the chapters known as Very Unfinished Business, and the much loved, understanding friends. Master Salmalìn had certainly led a full life in every respect. Including female company. Starting with Varice Kingsford and ending with a classical Tortallan beauty, Numair had never been wanting. To risk being named a cynic, Numair felt he had seen them all. Guilt came with these thoughts, but all the same he thought them. Numair liked and respected women; his closest friends were women, he loved his mother dearly--and she was _all _woman. He enjoyed their company, loved and loathed their perceptiveness by turns, felt them an all important part of society and world function in general. But, when it came to romancing them, the pattern flowed along all too familiar lines. They came, they kissed, they went. 

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Or they plague the mind, intangible, untouchable, desired…

Thoughts drifted, and were pushed back, to be locked away. There was no one in the room to see it, but Numair was blushing. A hundred thoughts were crowding him: age, scandal, and responsibility, brown curls and blue-grey eyes…

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And love.

Yes; love. Numair had a horrible, sickening, glorious feeling that he was in love again. Even though _this _girl would think of him as friend, and friend only. Even though he knew that, if he kept this desire, his heart would only be broken by the sight of a pretty girl's admirers, and inevitable lovers. Even though their ages made a gap that no bridge would cross. Despite all this, Numair was drawn helplessly toward blurred, beautiful fantasies--cruel, fruitless dreams. 

"The poets say that when in love age is of no account" Numair whispered to his room, his words with a bitter edge. "Then again, most poets go mad."

Staring morosely out the window, Numair caught site of Daine, and Perin Redfern, the young clerk from the southern wing, walking very close. 

Of course, Numair didn't notice that Daine was walking much more quickly then usual, her expression set into a blank mask. In his present mood, all he noticed was Perin.

Perin putting an arm around Daine.

And another

Perin stoking Daine's hair, and a shudder from her, it looked like desire.

Perin kissing Daine.

He couldn't stand any more of this. Abruptly the mage closed the curtains and turned his back to the window. He didn't know that, if he'd looked for a second longer, this chapter might have ended on a happy note--at least for him. As it was, he simply decided to take refuge in despair. 

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I suppose I should have known, he thought, _that it would only be a matter of time._


	3. Chapter Two: Gouging Mr Redfern

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Chapter Two: Beige, and Gouging Mr. Redfern/

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During the reign of their majesties King Jonathan and Thayet, his queen, someone passing though the Royal Forrest of Corus would most likely expect to find a flock of Hurroks and a Spideren. 

They would not--at least in broad daylight--expect to see a tall, rather beige looking clerk kissing a wildly struggling girl.

But today both girl and clerk were in the forest--doing just that. 

* * *

Perin Redfern was having the time of his life. Fate--in all her glory, appeared to be smiling on him. He'd spent the greater part of the day lapping up the attentions of the beautiful, practically perfect Daine Sarrassri (and only _practically_ perfect, Perin thought, because of that unfortunate illegitimacy business. But everybody had their faults.) Anyway, one thing had led to another and he--Perin the charismatic

clerk--was kissing her. True, she appeared to be struggling rather violently, but…outside of work he never really harped over details. What did it matter?

Daine was having one of the worst times of her life. Fate--in all her glory, appeared to be frowning on her. After a morning of rediscovering gravity, she'd been in a certain clerk's company for over two hours. Which, according--_rather correctly_, she thought--to her Player/Rider friend Evin Larse was "akin to having one's nails pulled out while listening to the Master of Protocol go over the angles required when bowing to a Lordship, Baron, or Merchant turned Noble." Now--against a background of dark, heavy trees which were wet from recent rain--he was kissing her, and--flattering as his attentions may have been--Daine was wishing fervently that her swain were a very long way away. _The Roof of the World for preference, but any other country would do, or a cave somewhere._

As she tried to push away, young Mr. Redfern found that new ideas were starting to form. 

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the clerk began to unbutton the girl's blouse.

Daine panicked. Pinned against a damp tree as she was, there wasn't very much she could do to get out of her current situation. Even if there were a way, he would most certainly just grab her again. _Was _this_ what happened to Ma_? Daine wondered, in a small, detached, corner of her mind. 

Her _mind. _

I am so stupid_! _She thought, giving another, harder push. _Stupid, stupid, _stupid!

Loudly, frantically, she tried to call the People to her.

It didn't take very long. 

Soon, the entire animal population of the Royal Forest seemed to appear--biting, scratching, doing everything in their power to make Perin let go of their friend.

Perin dropped Daine as if she were a hot brick to try--unsuccessfully--to fend off the creatures.

"You can stop now," Daine said aloud, grinning. With some reluctance--leaving a final scratch or gouge as a parting gift--the animals obeyed. 

"Bitch," Perin muttered. He looked quite a sight, clothes torn, face a mass of scratches. 

Daine stopped grinning,

"Perin," she said, slowly and clearly. "You've made a very big mistake, today. I'm not going to forget it. If you so much as _look_ in my direction again, then," she sighed; he glared-- "the same thing will happen. But I don't know if I could hold the animals back a second time--they get fair protective of me"

"Thought you liked it, sweetheart," the clerk--somehow--still managed a suggestive leer.

Daine groaned. "Yes, I liked it," she said. "About as much as I like watching paint dry."

Suddenly, Perin - wishing desperately for a witty retort--saw something that made his pale face lose what little colour it possessed. A herd of unicorns. And not the peaceful kind. Those avoided human contact whenever possible, and were pretty and silvery, with a bit of a thing for blue-eyed, blond, cherubic virgins with soft voices. No, indeed. _This_ herd was the other type of unicorn. The killer unicorns, which where massive and scarred, with a big, very sinister thing for all living creatures--cherubic soft-spoken virgins or no--and a predictable (yet no less horrible) fetish for human blood.

* * *

Having decided that he'd allow himself the luxury of self-pity, Numair Salmalìn stared moodily at his desk and wondered why--in the names of Mithros, Mynoss, and Shakith (_particularly_ Shakith)--Daine was attracted to Perin Redfern. It seemed warped, and completely out-of-character. 

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It's just…wrong! 

Of all the numerous young eligible men in the palace, Perin had to be the most boring, useless, unambitious one around. The very air he breathed was wasted, since he couldn't do anything half decent with the life it gave. If he had the initiative to take an interest in the world around him, he'd be a conservative, wasteful leech. Narrow minded and obtuse, Numair saw no reason for him to exist at all. If people were colours, he'd be beige. Numair just didn't see anything remotely likeable--let alone 

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seductive--about the man. Numair groaned, and glared at his curtained window. "I thought she would have better taste!"

"Talking to yourself again?" 

Numair started, and turned to glare at the eavesdropper. "Something for you, Onua?"

The K'mir just laughed.

"Don't worry Numair," she said. "I won't tell anyone. Besides, everyone in the palace knows you're mad. I don't _need _to." 

"Thank you, oh so much," he retorted--smiling in spite of himself. 

"Don't mention it." Pushing black hair out of her grey-green eyes, Onua walked into the room and perched on the desk. "Who has better taste, you say?"

Numair shrugged. He didn't feel like explaining himself just that moment, not even to one of his best friends. "No one," he said, flatly. 

Onua's eyebrows emigrated towards her hair. "Oh, a No One, is it?" she asked. "Does this particular No One have curly hair, a persistent Gallan accent and a 'knack' with animals? Do I pay her wages?"

"You can go away now, thanks."

Onua's expression, when faced with the half-sad, half-angry, rather pathetic one on Numair's face, softened. "Stop doing this to yourself, friend," she said, smiling a little. "You love our Daine--"

"You _knew_?" 

The woman ignored him. "--And that's wonderful for you," she continued. "But don't be an idiot about it."

"You…_knew_?"

"Of course I knew, dolt! Could see it coming from a mile off, plain as if it were written down. Alanna's tales of your little Carthaki adventure just tied everything off."

Numair put his head in his hands. "Am I _that _obvious?"

"Tragically." Grinning, Onua slipped off the desk and headed towards the door. "Oh," she called over her shoulder. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"Alanna and I've been betting over this for months now. You've just given me ten gold Nobles."

Numair snorted. "So glad that the deepest, darkest desires of my heart have contributed to your income."

"Glad to hear it," said Onua. "If you manage to tell her after Midsummer--not _before_, mind--then you'll give me another fifty."

The Mage shook his head. "You'll never see _that _money, I'm afraid."

Onua simply smiled, and walked through the door. "And Numair--"

"Ye-es, Onua?"

"Go outside. You need the exercise."

She left.

* * *

"What is it, Perin?"

The clerk's rapid change of expression from belligerent to terrified was starting to get Daine worried. There was something…some presence the girl found almost impossible to describe, behind them. Something terrible, and--it was the only way she could think of it, in colours--a blackened bronze, streaked with a putrid red. Slowly, she turned around--and bit back a scream. Struggling to remember everything--anything--she had learned on killer unicorns.

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They…they don't have very good eyesight! Rely on hearing! Yes, they rely on hearing, Daine thought, trying not to breathe and very nearly succeeding. _If I stay absolutely still, and don't…_

Perin--bless him--gave a loud moan of terror and fled, jerking the unicorns into hunting mode. They looked around, ears moving independently as they tried to work out which part of the landscape they'd like to eat first. As one body, the heard moved towards the girl.

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Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no onononononononono! Daine stared, horrified and fascinated, at the creatures--unable to move an inch. _Just like the kitten,_ she thought, wildly. _Oh _no! _Go away unicorns. Be good; come on. No need to eat me, really. _

The People were crying out loudly in her mind. They wanted to rip, tear, maim and kill the Immortals that were a danger to The Girl that was The People. Daine--even though she was quite nearly out of her wits--kept her will on them. She wasn't going to let any of the People die.

* * *

Numair had just acted upon Onua's advice and was walking morosely and aimlessly towards the palace gates--which kept the royalty away from the roads--when he saw Perin, bleeding, scratched and white, running full pelt from the opposite direction. Away from the Forest. Away from the Forest, and without Daine.

It took Numair approximately thirty-seconds to grab him by the collar. 

It took Perin even less to flinch, and point with a trembling hand in the direction from which he had come. 

It took a good two minutes, however, for him to whisper three dreadful syllables. One dreadful word.

"Unicorns."


	4. Chapter Three: Bets and Unicorns

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Chapter Three: Bets and Unicorns

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"Oi! Alanna!" 

Sir Alanna of Pirates Swoop and Olau, vanquisher of evil, bringer of the Dominion Jewel, and hand of the Goddess, looked warily at the grinning K'mir in her doorway. "Yes, Onua?"

"Pay up."

"Oh?" 

Onua groaned. "Alanna," she said, "you owe me. Ten gold Nobles as soon as you can get them. Which is _now_." The horse trainer walked fully into the room, very close, and stood over her friend. She wasn't a tall woman, but when near Alanna, she still managed to loom. As she loomed, Onua watched a strange, slow smile spread over the Kings Champion's face.

"So, we were _right_."

Onua nodded. "I never doubted it, you know. Got any coins on you? I'm a busy woman"

"You have a one track mind, Onua Chamtong."

"So my mother always said."

"Hmph."

"She _also _told me that procrastination never got one anywhere," said Onua, grinning. "Get on with it, Lady Knight." 

Alanna sighed, and--with rather bad grace--tossed a small leather bag in Onua's direction, glaring as the dark haired woman draped herself over the nearest chair. 

"My day," said Onua, "is complete."

"At my expense" Alanna muttered, tone caustic. "Anyway--I thought you said you were a busy woman."

"That was a lie."

"Obviously. Now, you owe _me_. How did you get it out of him?"

* * *

Numair had thought he was frightened when Daine had fallen off the needle, but that was nothing--_nothing_--to how he felt now. 

Slowly, counting to seven and back again, with closed eyes; he released Perin's collar--ignoring his whimper of relief. When he did speak, it was with a clenched jaw through gritted teeth. "Mr. Redfern," he said. "As much as I loathe to admit it, you are the only one with half reliable information on my student's whereabouts. What happened to her, if you please, and _where is she_?"

Perin shuddered. "K-k-killer…killer unicorns," he managed, watching Numair carefully. "At least twenty of the things! Gave me the fright of my life, and, we-ell--"

"Well?"

"I ran."

Another count of seven.

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It's going to be all right; I can stay calm. It's going to be all right; I can stay calm, It's going to be all right--I don't want _to stay calm, damnit!_

"Without Daine."

"That prudish little bastard can fend for herself." Perin, who had survival instinct enough to run from carnivorous immortals but little else, rubbed his scratched arms, scowling. "She can't expect to lead a man on like that and--" large hands closed on his collar again. Perin had to wheeze.

"Go." Numair spoke in a voice that was perfectly level, cold, and calm. With beautiful enunciation. Perin didn't want to hear it again. "Now." 

Within seconds, Perin was out of reach down an elaborately carved path, followed by an errand-boy. 

* * *

The atmosphere in Alanna's room was getting quite festive, with the fire poked up and stories of a certain mutual friend's romantic embarrassments flowing freely between them. It might have seemed out of character to any onlooker, who would expect the King's Champion to be permanently armoured in both metal and temper; but everyone needs an afternoon off, once in a while. 

"Doesn't it…bother you sometimes?" Onua looked thoughtfully into the fire, chin on her hand. 

Alanna yawned companionably. "What bothers me?"

"Numair…and Daine."

"Why should it?" Alanna asked. "It's up to them, after all. You're _not _concerned about the a--"

"No, the age difference isn't the problem, it's just…" Onua looked pained, "Numair's obsessive about her now, sure enough, and mostly I really like the idea, but what's going to happen in a year, or two, even? Think seriously, that's the longest he's ever managed to stay with a woman and, well, I don't want to see them getting hurt. Daine might think she's wise to the world, but she's an innocent little idealist, really. So young."

"Well," said Alanna, calmly. "I think you're undervaluing both of them."

"But it's _true. _They've written bloody _songs _about--"

"Numair's Lovers," Alanna grinned, and hummed a snatch of the offending work. "I know all that, and I still think you should give them the benefit of the doubt. _You _were the one who first said they looked sweet together, I recall." Irritation flickered in her purple eyes. "Just let things take their course," she leaned across and patted Onua on the knee. "And stop fretting to _me_ about them!"

The K'mir flushed, and her knuckles whitened as her hands curled into fists. Alanna was a wonderful friend, an a better champion, but she'd been married too long and too well to have any true empathy with her when it came to matters such as these. 

Of course, Onua would never dream of saying that aloud. 

* * *

Kerry was a small boy. He was a small boy who ran errands. Kerry was _so _small in--both size and influence--that he didn't even have a servant's livery to call his own. He could just run--quick and well. Well enough to earn a few coppers from those too rich and too lazy to deliver their own messages. _Almost _well enough to avoid the heavy hand that landed on his shoulder, as he neared the Noble's Wing. 

"Where'd'ye think ye're off to, then?"

Kerry flashed a conspiratorial grin at the older boy, while trying to think of a quick escape. Running errands was a tough business in the Palace. Nobles were only willing to give out a few of their precious coppers to anyone, and competition was fierce. "The Lioness's room, en't I," Kerry told the truth happily, knowing this particular urchin's aversion to all things unnatural. "Got a message from that mad Mage, Sal'mlin. 'Bout some _other_ mad Mage."

The other boy shuddered. "Thought 'e could jus'…yeh know…Magic hisself to other folks?

Kerry shrugged, and slipped out of his captor's grip. "Dunno. Prob'ly 'cause 'e's a lazy git like the rest of 'em." With a last grin, he did what he did best. Run. Leaving the furious older boy to pick on some other unfortunate.

* * *

The errand-boy's "Mad Mage" stood alone in the courtyard, staring at the trees.

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She's in there, he thought. _She's in there, and I can't do a thing. Not on my own_.

He'd done the logical thing: he'd kept control; he'd asked for help. Now he had to wait for it.

Slowly, his eyes moved from the trees to his hands. His fingers curled. _I could clear it all_. The thought was tantalising. _Clear them all. _Then _I could find her_. 

He knew he couldn't.

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Shakith: Seer. Mithros: Protector. Just… let her live. Just this once. I promise; I'll never lose her again. 

* * *

Triumphant, Kerry darted through the servants' corridors in the Noble's Wing, searching for the turn-off that led to the Lioness's palace rooms. The way was crowded, and the boy often had to dodge under or around legs much larger than his own--once crashing headlong into old Timon, which he knew would earn him a severe talking-to if he were ever caught. Unconcerned over this fate, he moved confidently over the flagstones, darting through tapestried doorways and snatching glimpses of the gentry in all their finery as they strolled through the wider, brighter, and decidedly cleaner corridors that made up the main building. In record time, he reached the room.

And stopped.

Kerry could see, through the tiny crack between door and floor, the pretty, warm light that meant there was a fire burning in the grate. She was in. Potential coppers or no, he didn't feel half so grand about his message now.

If the King's Champion's temper was formidable in reality, it was petrifying in rumour. And Kerry had just remembered it. Visions of fire and slaughter, violet eyes and his own white face rose before his eyes. 

__

Trickster, curse me! What's to do_?_

* * *

Alanna glared at the door. Someone was knocking on it. At least, she _thought _someone was knocking on it. The sound was so faint, so hesitant and nervous, that it seemed more like someone was knocking with their finger, for fear their hand would break. "Either come in or go away," she said, irritated. 

The door opened. First a crack and then--at Alanna's glare--fully. Revealing a tiny boy who looked about seven years old (he was really eleven) with scruffy brown hair and a pair of panic-stricken grey eyes. His mouth was a perfect 'o' with fright. 

Onua sighed. "Yes?" she'd never been very patient with people looking like frightened rabbits at her.

The boy, with a visible effort, found his voice. "Me-message from Master Sal'mlin, 'Orse Mistress Onua," he muttered. "Fer s-s-sir…lady…? 'Er knightliness…ship--?"

"--It's a case of either/or, lad!" Alanna tried to put an end to his suffering. "If you've got something to say, say it."

"M-m-master Sal'mlin's respects…um…ma'am," 'he asks if yeh could meet him at the Sou' Courtyard. It's a…" desperate under the glare of a legend, Kerry struggled on. "A matter of _urgency_."

Alanna looked at the boy, wondering whether the word 'urgency' was a part of his vocabulary that was fully understood. "Master Salmalìn didn't happen to tell you _what _this 'urgent matter' is, did he?"

"Somfing about danger an' stupid clerks' an' Vera…dai…the Wildmage, ma'am," the boy answered. "I en't sure 'bout the rest of it. 'E seemed _awful _shook up." Kerry was rapidly regaining confidence in front of his audience, and Onua, recognising the signs (she'd had a brother like that at his age) pressed two coppers from her winnings into his palm. 

"_Thank _you, Mr…what's your name, lad?"

"Just Kerry, 'Orse Mistress," the boy clutched at his treasure, happily. "Kerry Livensson."

"Well, thank you, Mr. Livensson," Onua said gently, and indicated the door. 

Kerry fled.

* * *

Time passed, slowly. Endless minute upon endless minute dripped down and by the pacing, dark-haired man. People passing through the courtyard kept to the edges, trying to keep their eyes averted but inevitably drawn towards him. Flickerings, both of light and the absence of it, could be seen around him. The air hummed; even the stones seemed to shrink away. 

"Stop it, dolt! You're scaring people."

Numair whirled around, coat flapping, and glared, white-faced, at the speaker. "_You _took your time."

"Actually, we took a very short time." Onua came up on Numair's other side, making him jump.

"What's happened?" Alanna looked up at the man, quizzically. "That excitable mouse of an errand-boy told us something about Daine. At least," she amended, waspishly, "We _think _he did." 

Numair's response was fast, concise and full of vitriol. The two women listening almost felt sorry for Mr. Redfern. If their friend carried out his threats to the letter then anyone who spoke about the dead boring clerk would have to insert a very significant comma.

At that moment, however, all three were more focused on the dark, dripping forest, and what it contained. 

They split up, Onua running for the Provost. 

The girl from Snowsdale was being hunted, again. 

* * *

"Dai-aine!" Purple fire blazed its way through green and brown. 

"Dai_ne_!" Branches tore at the beautiful but thin fabric of a black coat. Dark, frantic eyes were half closed against twigs that scratched his face.

"D_aine_!" A third voice had taken up the call. Loud, and used to command. In between the calls, anyone listening could hear a K'miri prayer.

"Daine!" A fourth: a harsh voice, but its rasp did nothing to diminish its power. Silver strands of the Lord Provosts hair was added to the hunters' trail. 

"Daine?" 

"Da-a-aine!" 

"Daaaaaaaaaine!"

"Verali**daine**!" 

The voices echo, each becoming more frantic, more numerous. The second hunter's voice can be heard the most of all--choked with tears that don't leave his eyes. "Oh, Gods…were _is she_?"

* * *

__

Flight.

Flight. Yes. Flight is safe. Can't fight. Too big; too powerful--prey does not fight predator. This is Law. _Must flee. Save self. Keep People safe. Away! Away from danger._

From danger.

Terror.

Fear.

Blood.

Pain.

Pain. Blood. 

So much…

Death.

Fear freezes even the strongest of minds. 

Daine fainted.

Later she would look back on the incident and curse herself for not shapeshifting, but, right then, Daine wasn't looking at anything.

Ivory gleamed in the sunlight, as unicorns bent their heads.

* * *

Alanna reached her first, the purple fire of her magic had illuminated the iron-grey of the Immortals' hides, dapping it eerily. It had found matching glints in their predator's eyes, and blinded them. So it was almost too simple for the mage to change her light into heat.

She had to cover her ears against the screams. 

Next came Onua, with the Provost close behind. They ignored the unicorns, and focused on the girl, who was rapidly disappearing under an onslaught of foxes and cats, geckos, birds and countless other animals. They were all frantic for their human, and worried about the spreading pool of blood. 

So were the others. Alanna pushed her way through the crowd, ignoring squawks of protest and the sharp sting of claws against her skin. When she got close enough to Daine to survey the damage she bit her lip. "We'll need to get her to the Healers' Wing," she said calmly. "She's been…gored a bit."

* * *

Eventually, the drama ended. True, it had taken the combined efforts of Alanna, the Provost and Onua to peel a terrified Numair away from Daine's unconscious body. And, true again, it had then the combined efforts of these three plus Duke Baird, four junior healers, the Steward and one very-much-intrigued Kerry Livensson to forcibly remove him from the Healers wing. But everything was calm enough now. The chief Healer _had _let Numair back into Daine's room, after half-an-hour or so. He was sitting by her head now, his hand over hers, and completely oblivious to a whole new branch of palace-gossip which a certain errand-boy had happily spread from wall to wall. 

Daine stirred, and muttered something. Her face was hot, and there was a horrible trail of stitches down the inside of her right arm. There were other such trails, mercifully hidden, but Numair couldn't get the thought of a shocking, bright red gash across her stomach out of his mind. 

__

Well, Duke Baird says she'll be all right, and if he isn't a good healer, then who is?

He squeezed the girl's hand. 

__

You'll be fine soon, Magelet. 

Daine jerked her hand away as if she'd been stung. "Don' _touch _me. Don' you say things like that about my Ma. They en't true! I _know _they en't, Conal Almensra, and you're no man if you say they are."

It went on, and on. Numair could only stare in horror as his student relived through battles fought long ago, with people who had long since left her for dead. By the time Daine had collapsed back on her pillows, he had learned far more than he wanted to about what Conal Almensra had been saying about the girl's Ma. When he'd tried to wake her up, she'd burst into tears, saying that it _wasn't _true. It _wasn't_. 

Numair, white-faced, jerked to his feet, and moved at a run towards Duke Baird's office. By the time Alanna arrived to check on her friend, she could hear the argument from across the hall. 

__

Oh, bugger.

They'd need to get the heavies in again.


	5. Chapter Four: The Diagnosis

****

Chapter Four: The Diagnosis

* * *

'A hour later, the Healers' Wing, the palace, Corus. Numair has been lead away by a large group of very frightened people. 

"Unicorn Fever" 

Duke Baird of Queenscove drew bed-coverings up around the sleeping figure of Veralidaine Sarrasri, completely confident in his diagnosis. "Not that _you _needed to ask me," he said. "I know that you've healing training enough to sense it, yourself."

Alanna leant down to brush a long curl from Daine's forehead. "I don't like diagnosing my friends, Baird. You know that."

"We-ell," the palace's chief Healer couldn't resist a smile. "I never thought I'd see the day when you admitted that you didn't trust your judgement." 

"You won't see it again!" Alanna retorted. In spite of herself, she was nettled. 

Daine stirred fretfully, blankets slipping again. Baird straightened then, this time--a task that didn't require thought. He had straightened more blankets in his time then most have had hot dinners. "There isn't much anyone can do for the girl, save wait," he said, straightening. "The fever will pass, the wounds should heal without infection, though, deep are they are, scarring is possible, if not inevitable."

"Well, scarring never killed anyone," said Alanna, with a wry smile. 

Baird nodded. "She'll be weak for a time, though--a few months at the worst."

"A few _months_?" 

The healer sighed. "This is a fever, and it's been given by an immortal. The human body isn't properly equipped to deal with this sort of thing; it finds it hard enough to combat normal, _mortal _diseases, let alone a foreign strain."

"You're making it sound fatal."

"It usually is."

Alanna looked at him, hard. "Yet you're _certain _it isn't in Daine's case?"

"I'm a healer; not a god!" Baird was frustrated, now. "I only know that she's doing remarkably well, considering her injuries and illness. There's something…in her blood, which seems to be speeding up the healing process. Her body responds beautifully to it, far more so that others. If you're looking for someone to unravel the mysteries of human existence, then I think you'd better ask the philosophers!" 

The Lioness flushed, temper flaring dangerously. "I only asked a question, Baird, no need to go up on your high horse with me."

"_Your_ high horse? You of _all_ people telling me to…"

Baird was interrupted mid tirade by a worried face poking around the door. 

"If you two have _quite _finished? Numair's outside and would probably appreciate it if you decided whether or not Daine is on the brink of death." Onua looked at the two of them, half-amused. "He's--"

"--Irritated." A voice, drawling, sarcastic, and very, very tired, permeated the room. "Decidedly irritated. Can I come in now? Or do I have to listen to another hour of your bickering?"

Alanna glared at him. "That's cheek, coming from the one who's just upset every single conscious patient in here!"

"You are exaggerating, my dear."

"Don't you 'dear' me--"

"If you would both _be quiet_?" For an ageing man, Baird could make himself heard with surprising ease. "I understand that you are all worried about Veralidaine's condition, but you've both known me long enough to understand that I will be working to the best of my ability to keep her alive and well. And I've known _you _long enough to trust that you won't continue fighting like children, and that one or both of you will leave until you've calmed down enough to act like adults in their thirties again. Have I made myself clear?"

"Crystal." Alanna, peevish, turned on her heel and left the room, a tired Onua following. 

"And you, Master Salmalìn?"

"Will be staying." There was a very final air about his words. 

Baird managed to groan, barely, and turned to go himself. After too many years than he cared to remember of medical practise among temperamental mages, Duke Baird of Queenscove knew when to back off. 

* * *

__

She looks calm from the doorframe. Just…resting. Lying still. Those long curls of hers are making a sharp contrast with the pillow. Her lips are parted, and those ridiculous, beautiful eyelashes…an artist would give his pension for a picture like that. _Gods, she's beautiful. _

But she's shivering, and managing to burn up at the same time. Quite a paradox. Most fevers are. But this isn't a regular fever, is it, Numair? It's some bloody immortal strain, she was left alone, and this is where it got her. All because that stupid, stupid boy…_there are other bruises, on her neck, and arms. I'm not blind. I'm going to _kill _him!_

Oh no, the blankets are slipping. Quick, man; fix them up, before you see the scars. Before you see…

As Daine tensed, racked with fever-dream, the blankets fell from the bed, revealing…

__

…A perfectly respectable white shift--bandages, too. Honestly, what was I expecting? 

* * *

Numair picked up the fallen blankets, feeling in dire need for a cold shower. But he had no time for such contemplation, as Daine suddenly sat bold upright and started to scream.

"Ma? Get up! I'll find another healer--you goin' t'be 'right soon. Ma!" Daine's voice had gone back to a Gallan brogue--almost four years of vocal coaching forgotten in her delirium. 

Her teacher, with all compromising thoughts pushed firmly to the back of his mind, held the girl firmly by the shoulders, rocking her gently. "Hush now, dear one. Hush…"

"I'm sorry, Ma. I wouldna have gone to Lori's if I'd known. Honest to Gods! You should've come to Lori's with me, the babe was fair gorgeous--a_n_' you like em' more then me. I'm so sorry, Ma…"

"Hush, Magelet," Numair said again, even more gently. "It's just a dream, just your brain deciding to overheat and making you remember things. You're safe now, it's all right" He kept this up for some time, holding her hand and being the ideal bed-sitter, whilst inwardly thinking how pleasant it would be to sew Perin's lips together. By the time Numair had the lovely idea of coating the thread in hydrochloric acid before using it for the purpose mentioned above, Daine had gone back to sleep. 

Numair, wincing slightly, stood up. He had been thinking of other things aside a clerk's torturing session during the time it took for his muscles to stiffen in the chair. 

It was time to visit Volney Rain. 


	6. Chapter Five: Experimental Cookery

****

Chapter Five: Experimental Cookery

* * *

****

Authors Note: See if you can spot a reference to Jaden Ellisett, the heroine of the utterly brilliant A Road Less Travelled, which you all _must _read. (Once you've finished this, of course. *grin*) Jaden exists in this universe with the permission of A Girl Called Candice, who needs more minions, so, read her stuff!

* * *

No one ever knew quite what to make of the Middle City.

Wedged like an afterthought between the slums and the gentry, it was an odd combination of the pretentious and the unambitious. Those of the hard working breed who just wanted to provide for their unambitious, hard working wife and family--and those who longed for other people to do it for them. People who didn't know or care about anything besides their work and their own, reasonably comfortable, lives--and those who did know, and care--using crude imitation of airs, education, and graces to give themselves some twisted comfort. Often resulting in rather alarming identity crises.

But Numair Salmalìn, in a quiet way, liked the Middle City. Its eccentricities, its quirks, were both entertaining and interesting. It also lacked the dance of manners and diplomacy, the never ceasing whirl of words and cryptic messages, which was as common--and important--as breathing in the palace.

Thoughts on the Middle city, however, were not in the man's mind as he jostled his way through the crowded streets; politely but firmly refusing to by a bushel of Poor Man's Oranges (sold at a Rich Man's Prices.) No, his thoughts were a quarter of a mile behind him--in the chair near Daine's bed--and three streets ahead of him-- in Filigree Street. In bottom end of Filigree Street, where--nestled between the brewery and the apothecary--a small man of Tyan origin and formidable Carthaki business sense was currently staring at the remnants of his lunch.

* * *

It had been a good lunch, too.

Volney Rain passed a hand through his hair and surveyed the canvas in front of him. Reaching from dilapidated floor to leaky ceiling, it had been a costly thing. A costly thing, which now had delicate pattern of glutinous rice (with sesame oil) and slightly charred cloud-ear mushrooms with bok choi and honey-soy splattered across its surface. If the man had been even remotely religious he probably would've been thinking that even Shakith wouldn't be able See a way to turn a canvas covered in what had once been his lunch into a portrait of Lord Genlith's wife. As it was, Volney Rain simply thought that his attempt at a more complicated branch of cookery had ruined a new, expensive, canvas. And he had no chance in hell of ordering another one, then painting a Noble on it, within a week.

__

Although, you have to admit…the artisan took a step backwards. Yes, there was a noticeable and rather alarming resemblance to his subject in the thing. _Maybe if I join this splotch here, mmph-hmph…_Volney stopped, shaking his head. He liked breathing too much to present the Lady Venezia of Genlith a portrait drawn with even a hint of accuracy.

"Who or _what_ is that, Rain?" A long, familiar shadow made its appearance on the wall, across the culinary Lady. "Venezia?"

"Mmph-hmph. I had just, mmph, finished making that observation, Numair." Volney turned around, an expression of deep chagrin upon his neat, dark features. "But, my friend, what you see before you was never meant to adorn a sheet of canvas. Mmph-hmph. Its purpose was to - mmph - fill my stomach.

"Well, whatever you were making to fill your stomach obviously desired to be elsewhere." Numair stepped into the little room, stooping slightly to accommodate his size. "Mithros and Mynoss! That really is the spitting image of her ladyship."

"Neither Mithros nor Mynoss had anything to do with it!" the artist snapped. "I left the fire unattended, is all. Mmph-hmph!"

"Whatever the case, do you have a chair buried somewhere under all these products of the artistic temperament? It's a pain in the back looking down at you."

"And, mmph-hmph, it's a pain in the neck looking up at you." Volney said tiredly, dragging out a chair. The Mage sat down, gratefully. He spread his hands.

"Rain, I've come to beg a favour off of you…"

"Of course! Why else you grace me with your lengthy presence, mmph-hmph?--" 

"--Please, let me finish. You know how when I asked you whether you could paint a miniature of Daine without needing her to sit for you?

"Mmph-hmph."

"Well, could you do it now? 

"It's already done." Volney gave a self-satisfied smile, his black eyes dancing behind their copper-framed glasses. 

"I thought you were Giftless!" Numair stared incredulously at the elderly, miraculous, paint and soy streaked, wonderful little man in front of him. 

"It doesn't take your sort of gift to paint the portrait of a friend, lad." Volney said quietly. "Mmph-hmph! Especially one who has prettiness and presence enough to make an old man like me wish I was a good deal younger."

Numair blushed. "Let's see it then," he said, gruffly. He felt a fool. He often did, when in the same room as this man. 

Volney tetched wearily at him, and stood up. "Patience, Numair! Do you expect me to have the thing permanently on my person, mmph-hmph?"

__

I would. Numair thought to himself, though he gave his friend--who was tetching all the more and muttering something revolting in Tyranian--an apologetic half-smile as he bustled around the shop. Eventually, with a muffled cry of "Mmph-hmph!" Volney Rain held out a small, oval shaped canvas.

It was the most beautiful thing Numair had ever seen.

Every plain and rise of her face, the stubborn chin and small--almost childlike--curve of her cheek. The tiny scar at the corner of one blue-grey eye, given to her by a sky-blue dragonet a year before. The far off, almost sombre expression--as if she was thinking of something on another plain of existence. To which she, and only she, had the key to enter. The smoky brown curls, which fell, even in a painting, about her face as if tossed the wind. To Numair she was as wonderful as any divinity. He looked up, an expression of gratitude in his dark eyes so heartfelt as to be almost painful, at the artist who had painted her. The little main with the neatly brushed white hair and the neat, copper framed spectacles and the neat little face as brown and wrinkled as a walnut. The little man with the small, neat, childlike hands. The small, wonderful, neat hands--slightly spattered with age and paint--which had somehow created this small, wonderful image of his student. The small, neat little man with the sharp--glaring--black eyes and the educated voice. The educated voice, which was stating--loudly-- "that if he didn't stop gawping than he'd give his precious miniature the same treatment as Lady Venezia. (Mmph-hmph!)"

"I'm sorry, Volney." Numair said at last, passing his tongue over his suddenly dry lips. "It's just…just…how am I ever going to repay you, my friend? Name your price and you can have it. Except if it includes giving back this _superlative_ work of yours, if it does... well, then I'll be heading for the hills." 

Volney laughed, his own voice catching slightly in his throat. "No payment is necessary, Numair. Just think of it as your Midwinter gift a few weeks early. A gift for the two of you."

"Oh come on, Rain," Numair interjected, imploringly. "There must be _something_?"

"We-ell," Volney said thoughtfully, gazing intently at Lady Venezia, "Come to think of it, I _could _do with another canvas. Mmph-hmph" He gave a mock shudder. "I, hmph, don't fancy courting the Genlith's reaction if I bring this modern beauty in."

"Done!" Numair-- eyes aflame once again with that overwhelming expression of gratitude--leaned down and wordlessly gave the artists shoulder a hard squeeze, then--portrait tucked safely in his shirt--strode out of the room.

Volney Rain watched him go.

It was touching to see Numair Salmalìn, a man who had drifted from woman to woman over the years, falling in and out of love with them as frequently and methodically as the sun rose and fell, so obviously besotted with the girl with the grey-blue eyes and stubborn chin. The one who he had painted completely and faultlessly from memory. It wasn't as if Veralidaine Sarrasri was the most beautiful creature that he had ever painted, far from it. There had been many a remarkable woman (and many a remarkable man, if it came to it,) whom he considered far superior in looks to the girl. One in particular, he remembered. He hadn't seen that passionate and wilful young woman, with large hazel eyes that he preferred greatly over blue, since Carthak. Numair had loved her, too, for a time. Absently, Volney wondered where she was, and if she were happy. 

Volney wasn't genius some seemed to think of him as, either. Like Daine, there were many superior to him. 

"But, mmph-hmph," he ruminated, examining Lady Venezia once again. "If I can make even one being look at me the way the Salmalìn lad looked at me today… Well, I must be doing _something_ right."


	7. Chapter Six: The Literate Blanket of Sno...

****

Chapter Six: The Literate Blanket of Snow

* * *

****

Authors Note: It is just so sad that it's taken me almost three years to get this chapter up. I'm mortified, and touched that you've all been so patient with me. There's only one chapter and an epilogue to go--both partially written!

* * *

__

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, 'Do I dare?' and, 'Do I dare?'

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--

[They will say: 'How his hair is growing thin!']

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--

[They will say: 'But how his arms and legs are thin!']

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

****

--The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Elliot. 

* * *

Late in the evening. Actually, closer to very early in the morning.

When Alanna the Lioness stood in the doorway of Numair Salmalìn's room, she found herself face to face with what could only be called an inexplicable phenomenon. 

It was snowing--indoors.

Alanna blinked. No, that wasn't it. What she was staring at was a room transformed by paper. It covered everything; an obscuring, extremely literate blanket of ink-stained white. The desk was gone, and all traces of carpet. There was about half the Royal Forest in that small room, and, emerging from under it, was a manic-eyed, wild haired being which appeared to be masquerading as her friend. Alanna stood on tiptoe, stretched, and managed to put a comforting arm around his shoulders, while digging her nails--hard--into his shoulder. He winced. She glared. "You need to _eat_."

"I've nearly found it, Alanna."

"Found what?"

"_It_"

"Oh," Alanna raised an eyebrow. "'It'"

Numair sighed, and passed a hand over his eyes. "How's Daine?" he asked, attempting nonchalance.

"She's sleeping."

"Have the Provost's men found the bastard, yet?"

"Who do you think they _are_? Of course they've found him--no, you _can't _see him, he's being questioned."

"By whom, may I ask?" 

Alanna looked at him, concerned. There was a gleam in his eyes that unsettled her. She felt very relieved that she'd asked the Provost to keep Numair away from the Clerk, now. "Dimitri Peregonis."

"_That_--"

"--Perfectly capable officer--"

"--Inexperienced little--"

"--Fully qualified--"

"--Puppy!"

Alanna groaned. "You're overreacting."

"They're trusting an important case to a _child_."

"He's twenty-one."

"I don't _care_."

"You're impossible."

"Refer to my earlier statement, Alanna."

"I hate it when you're in a mood. I'll go away now, and you're going to go down and eat something. No matter how important 'It' is, I'm _not _waiting on you hand and foot."

Numair sighed, feeling unutterably depressed. "Whatever you say."

The Lioness slammed the door as she left. Hard. 

__

Why is it that women all try and make some sort of point _that way?_

* * *

The Healers' Wing was always quiet in the evening. Most of the visitors had left, leaving those unfortunates on the night shift with at least one less evil to deal with. And Duke Baird had felt it safe to go to his family's rooms, where he could rest a while before arguing with his youngest son about staying at the University. 

So, Daine's room was completely deserted when Numair went in, holding a small, delicate pair of scissors that had once belonged to his mother. No one was there to hear the soft 'chink' as the blades came together on a smoky brown curl of her hair. There was no one to protest as Numair's long-fingered hand brushed against her cheek, in a most un-teacherly manner. For there were charms against visitors with ill intent, but nothing to guard against the exquisite and utterly inappropriate tenderness radiating off this man.

Did he kiss her then, reader? 

Did he give in? 

Did he dare? 

No. 

He didn't dare. 

He knew that, though there was no one there to see, he would remember. 

He would remember. 

And never be able to live with himself.

With a last look, Numair stole away--curl and scissors firm in hand.

* * *

It was past midnight, and most of the paper had been cleared away. A tray of food lay, mouldering and uneaten, by a closed door. Numair, eyes hollow and shadowed yet working like a man possessed, was busy lighting candles. They were set in a circle around him, in heavy, blackened-iron holders, and he lit them by hand. If he tried to use his gift, so highly charged and already beginning to leak from him in black/white fits and starts, they would probably have melted. Iron and all. 

He was muttering under his breath. Over and over, in Old Thak, the language of old men and spellcasters. His voice was as tired as the rest of him. If anyone listening had a knack for languages, they would be surprised at how smoothly the harsh Charthaki tongue translated into common. 

__

"'Strength of the Seeker, to find it,'" Numair lit the last candle, and sighed. The circle was complete--all he needed to do was step in. 

__

"'A part of the Lost One, to drive it.'" Nervously, he drew out the tight curl he had cut from Daine before. He stroked it, as if for reassurance. _You'll never be lost again, Magelet…_

"'Enclose in metal, to bind it,'" he whispered. Then stopped. Metal! He'd forgotten that part. All he needed was a twist of copper wire, but…_no_, he thought. Flushing, and suddenly swallowing down more than a fair share of guilt, he half ran to his desk, and opened a drawer. Out of it, he drew a man-sized bracelet made of fine gold links, with a small oval locket hanging from it. When he pressed the catch, and let the cover fall back, startling blue eyes looked smilingly back at him--in a lovely oval face framed with long golden hair. His breath caught. He hadn't looked at this picture in years. She looked so _young_. So pretty…

Gently, Numair removed the portrait, and let it crumple up in his closing hand. There. The last tie to Arram Draper, the one thing that might have ever tempted him to go back, was gone. He dropped it. Then, very, very carefully, he slipped Daine's picture in Varice's place. It filled it completely, and fitted perfectly. _And so mote it be_, he thought. He put the curl in its place then, and moved back to the circle. 

With the air shimmering like a heat mist around him, the candle flame growing and flickering eerily in a room that seemed to grow darker with expectation, Numair closed the locket. 

__

"'And the link is forged, between the two.'" 

The candles exploded. And molten iron pooled around their remains, burning through the floor.


	8. Chapter Seven: Hide the Charm

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Chapter Seven: Hide the Charm

* * *

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Authors Notes: The end of an era is nigh, my friends! *Player's bow* This little circus act of mine is drawing to a close. Expect the epilogue to be up next week. Thank you all so much for your support and feedback over the nearly four years it's taken me to draw this to a close. Individual thanks are at the end. 

Slàinte!

K. Ryan, 2003. 

* * *

The explosion, for the most part, had gone unnoticed. In a palace so overrun with mages as Corus was, big, loud, magical noises were just taken as a matter of course. A lot was, in that city. However, Mistress Doris Crockford, Stewardess and Head Housekeeper ("by Royal Appointment, no less!") was not going to stand by and take molten iron burning through _her _floors as a matter of any course _she _could think of. No, sir! The woman, staring up at the southwest corridor ceiling, over which Master Salmalìn's rooms lay, was indignant. There were _cracks_, where filthy metal was solidifying. There were _scorch-marks_. Indignantly, the tall, spare woman adjusted her royal-blue household skirts, and headed for the stairs, muttering to herself. 

"Irresponsible, high minded…_mages_!" She was formidable; she was tall, she was caustic and proud. 

"Ooh. Beg's pardon, ma-am!"

She tripped. "Get out of the _way_, Kerry. You filthy little urchin!

"Sorry, Ma-am."

"And so you should be! What are you doing on the main corridor? You _know_--"

"I en't errand'ing, Ma-am, 'onest!" Kerry tried his hardest to look like a charming, well brought up little boy.

"Master Timon is going to hear about this, mark my words."

__

Oh, Trickster! _Timon's going to grill me _twice _over…_ Kerry thought, panicking. "But--"

"Quiet now, and go away. I've things to see to."

"About the Mad Mage?" Kerry couldn't help himself. The yesterday had been very interesting, and _full _of the 'Mad Mage'. He wanted today to be like that, too. He looked up at the ceiling, and whistled. "Bet _'e _did that!"

"Who, you revolting little gossip?"

"Master Sal'mlìn, o'course!"

"Of course. Now, clear off to the back corridors, where you belong!"

"Yes, Ma-'am," the boy said, doing nothing of the kind. Hard, almost fleshless fingers enclosed his ear. "Owwww…" 

"When I say 'jump' Kerry Livensson, you say 'how high, Mistress Crockford?' the woman's voice was low and sweet in his ear. Her nails bit, hard. "So, when I say 'scat', _you _say--"

"Where to, Mistress Crockford?" 

Doris smiled. "_That's _better," she said. "And the answer is: Master Timon's rooms, at the double! I hear he's been trying to catch up with you since yesterday. Something about…what was it? Loitering in the Noble's Quarters?"

"Nothin' of the sort, ma-am," Kerry muttered, thinking, with a small dash of satisfaction, _Old Timon's so slow he might as well be heading backwards_.

"I don't believe you," Doris replied, loftily, letting go of his ear.

Kerry fled. He was very good at that. Sometimes, it seemed fleeing was all he ever managed to do.

Mistress Crockford watched him go, shaking her head, and then clasped her left hand hard around the banister, determined to have no more distractions. She was a woman on a mission.

* * *

Some time later, Duke Baird came into the Healer's Wing. He looked haggard. This was not an uncommon expression for healers, but (as some of the more weary members of the night shift observed, rather tartly) it should not have been part of a countenance who had left work early and alive the day before. The duke, oblivious, yawned--discreetly, and behind a handkerchief. 

"Late night, Your Grace?" Yelena Fletcher, having just completed twelve hours of work and in no mood for discretion, smirked. 

"Yes," the older man's answer was short, and to the point. "Go off and go to sleep while you can, girl. You're not getting paid for working over."

Yelena nodded, ran a hand through her short black hair, and turned towards the door. "Three coppers on a domestic between Baird and young master Nealan," she whispered to a friend, also on the way out. 

"I never bet against a winner, girlie."

"Well, that makes a change!"

Giggling, the two young healers left the Wing.

Baird sighed. He'd heard enough of that exchange to reconfirm his suspicions. His son's defection from scholarship to swordsman-ship was becoming public. Lovely. He passed a hand over his eyes, trying to ward off a headache. It had been a long night. _Why_, he thought, helplessly, _everyone is so argumentative these days, I just don't know. _He looked around--the shift had changed over peacefully enough, and not even the fever patients were stirring. _At least things are quiet, Mithros Bless._

"Oh, Your Grace?

Doris Crockford's shadow had joined its fellows as she stood in the doorway. It lengthened, and lurked in the corners of the room. Baird, resigned, turned around. He noticed her usually ruddy face was pale. 

"Yes, Doris?"

"Your Grace, I think you'll need to send up a few big, strong lads up to Master Salmalìn's rooms. I've _no _way of telling what he's been doing up there, you understand, but…oh, dear…he's just _lying _there, and everything's in a _terrible _mess." 

Horrible images crept into the Duke's mind as she spoke. He knew 'Master Salmalìn' well. The only thing that could send _him_ sprawling was something of his own creation. Baird also knew that it would take more than a few big, strong lads to get Numair down here. He was stubborn, even when unconscious. 

* * *

"Oi! Ink-sniffer!"

Perin groaned. Had the Lord Provost spent so much time amongst common criminals that he had lost the concept of _class_? It was bad enough that he, Clerk Redfeather, of a respectable family, had been dumped in this grimy holding cell--without so much as a by your leave--for doing what any red-blooded male worth his salt would have done when presented with the Sarrasri girl in a soft blouse. But, having to suffer the indignity of sharing quarters, however temporarily, with Iorek 'Hammer Hand' Dayvadson was just too much. 

A finger that was about as thick around as a good-sized sausage poked him in the back. Hammer Hand deserved his honorific. "Oi," he said again, quite unnecessarily. "I was _talkin' _to yez, Ink-sniffer."

"Oh, really? I would never have guessed."

"Ye're in no position to be snippy, palace-boy." Iorek's voice was a low rumble in the stone room. Despite the reeking, smoky oil-lamp in the corner, the damp dripping slowly in through chips in the mortar, his current life prospects and his cell companion, the big man sounded oddly content. "Not when yez are sittin' w'the likes of me, fer touchin' a young lady. Ye're no better then me, an' worse than some yez see down here." The man chuckled gently as the clerk bristled. "I'm not judgin' yez, mind. Just remindin' yez. You know anythin' 'bout magic, palace-boy?"

Perin rolled his eyes. "I know more about the intricacies and nuances of the arcane than you could ever possibly imagine. That is, if you _could _imagine."

Iorek grinned. "Yez waste those big words on Hammer Hand Dayvadson, boy. I canna see head to tail of what yez mean by 'em. I just mentioned it 'cause I heard that there's a mage who's been workin' on sommat awful serious in the Noble's Quarters. Knocked himself out, he did, usin' blood an' metal and those big words mage's seem so fond of. A right powerful spell."

__

Oh, please. "And your point is?"

"Oh, no point, save that I'm right afeared for the poor blighter that spell is meant for. The mage was…it was…Salml…Numair somebody, with one of them gaudy mage names. Yez should ken the type, bein' a palace-boy. Anyway, some fool upset his student, and this Master Numair Sal-somethin' got upset 'cause _she's _been upset, an' made a spell so powerful that it's knocked him right out." Iorek made a great show of wincing. "_Mithros_, I pity the idiot when the mage wakes up," he said, loudly. "I may just be a thick, granite-headed piece o'work that got hisself caught, but I ain't _that _stupid."

Perin said nothing, but was starting to look decidedly green around the edges. He flinched as Iorek started to laugh. 

"What's the matter, palace-boy? Yez look like a man meant for Traitors Hill." Clapping Perin on the shoulder, Iorek tried to smile reassuringly. The expression was marred considerably by several broken and blackened teeth. "Yez never get a ropin' fer a first offence, less it's murder, and word has it yez never even managed to get under the girl's skirt." While he said this, Iorek squeezed his shoulder, in bone-popping sympathy. "Or canna yez stomach my Lord Provost's breakfast menu, bein' so used to palace fare?"

Ever so slightly, Perin Redfeather started to rock. 

* * *

Alanna and Onua stood in the middle of Numair's room, loudly incredulous. 

"What was he _doing _in here?"

"'It', apparently." The Lioness bent down to touch one of the hardened globs of iron embedded into the floor. 

"'It?'" Onua looked bemused. "What's 'it' when it's at home?"

"That's what I said. Whatever 'it' was, though, it's certainly scared a lot of people. Thayet may have to think about changing housekeepers, with Crockford the way she is. I don't think she's ever seen a prone man in a nightshirt before."

Onua nodded. "At least, not a _scorched _nightshirt."

Grinning evilly, Alanna turned to leave the room, almost stepping on a heavy gold locket, with its chain pooled around it on the floorboards. "Hello," she muttered, bending down again. "What's this?" As she straightened, Alanna flipped the catch--and stared."

"What is it?"

"'It'. I think"

* * *

Baird looked at the two patients in front of him, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Teacher and student, dead the world, lay next to each other on identical white beds. They were both on their sides, one leaning towards the other. Daine scarred and flushed, Numair grey-faced and drained. Certainly, the two of them were quite a sight--and apparently oblivious to all the havoc they'd caused over the past few days--calmly sleeping with their ludicrous eyelashes against their cheeks. _Foolish children_…

Alanna walked in, eyes a little worried, crows-feet and laugh-lines a little more visible then she would have liked. "How are they?"

"They're fine, Alanna. Daine's healing up marvellously, and Numair should be up and about in a week, once his gift's rested."

"Oh…good," said Alanna, a little distractedly.

The Duke looked at her, shrewdly. "What's the matter?"

Alanna shrugged. "Nothing, really. Just returning something of Numair's I found." She leaned over the bed and carefully slipped the gold locket around his wrist. "I just hope," she muttered, "that he knows not to do anything stupid with it."

She left after that, leaving Baird, shaking his head with bemusement, to continue his rounds. 

* * *

After a week had passed, Onua--filthy up to her elbows from mucking out--decided they was going to give her Assistant Horse Mistress a raise. _Anything _to stop her from vanishing to lands unknown on mysterious quests, or getting involved with beige-tinted idiots with no sense of place or timing. Daine seemed no closer to waking up, and Onua missed her. Alanna had returned home to her family, Sarge had finally drilled the Rider trainees hard enough so that they manage to clean tack even to her exacting standard, and life was boring. The K'mir wanted her friend back--_both _her friends. Gloomily, Onua continued forking hay until a blue roan leaned over the gate to his stall and butted her hard on the shoulder. She didn't need Daine to translate: the expression in his eyes, and the sulkiness of his whole demeanour clearly said: "We miss her, too, but you don't see _us _whining about it. Hurry up and get the job done--and I want my ears scratched!" 

Laughing softly, the Horse Hearted did as she was told. Once her charges were satisfied, and her arms clean, Onua put away her pitchfork and headed towards the Healer's Wing."

* * *

Bright light. Dull, throbbing pains across her belly and arms. Whispering voices. Pretty eyes. Grey, green eyes--familiar eyes.

…"Onua?" The voice that came out of her mouth was faint and dry and unfamiliar. The girl swallowed, blinked painfully, and tried again. "Why…why am I in bed? In the Healers--"

"--Hush, child. Didn't you're Ma tell you not to talk when you're sick?" Onua's voice, to her ears, was rather cracked, too. 

*Ma…" a frown appeared between Daine's eyebrows. "Ma didn't come at all, so I mustn't have been _real_ sick. Did the unicorns get me?"

"I won't pretend to know what you're talking about, but yes, the unicorns did get you. Alanna blew them up."

"Oh." Daine smiled, tiredly. "I'm glad I didn't see that." Blinking sleepily, she turned her head to the side, and gave a start. "What's _Numair _doing here?"

"He…er…" Onua fumbled. Even _she _wasn't sure what his motives were, in making that _thing_. "He overworked himself."

With a sigh, the younger girl stretched an arm out and over to the next bed, and squeezed his fingers. "And he thinks _I _do stupid things!"

Onua stayed with Daine until she fell asleep again, and for a good time after. When she did eventually get up to leave, she took in the picture of the girl, who was sleeping peacefully, one hand still stretched out and entwined with Numair's. Absently, she wondered what Numair would think, when he realized she had woken up before he did. 

As Onua closed the door to the ward behind her, sunlight streamed in though a window: sparking on an innocent looking locket that fitted snugly around Numair Salmalìn's other wrist.

* * *

__

Fin

* * *

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Dedications and Grazis:

Special thanks have to go to Ali Young, Sarah Parker, Heather Montgomery and Lea Roded, who have been here since the beginning. Also, hugs to Bridget Cooper and Rachel Knight, who have probably forgotten their part in the creation of this story, even if I haven't. Anita Law, Jessica Lay, Ellen Robertson and Mary Trinh deserve medals, for listening to my near constant whingeing about my lack of writing ability during lunch-hours. Ellen also needs to be thanked for refraining from murdering Volney Rain, whose eccentricities are not for everyone

Thanks are also due to those who, despite having apparently vanished off the face of the earth, were great comforts in a time of trial several years ago. Laurie Makensri, Carney2k and Star-Eyed Kal'endral: you will always be remembered.

In more recent times, Caitie and everyone at The Dancing Dove have been an absolute blessing. Without you, and your inspiration, I doubt that I could have finished this. Starchild524, for her blistering, insightful critiques and extravagant praise, deserves a special mention. And a plug. Read Ravenspeak, everybody, if you're sick of the smaltz here! Candice (Girl, Called) gets a cookie and free use of Volney Rain for lending me Jaden.

And, to everyone who reviewed the last chapter:

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Mirrenand **Amanda**: Thanks ever so for your praise. Yes, I _did _have fun writing this. It was bittersweet.

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Squirrel Maiden of the Green: *blushes* You flatter me! I'm so glad I've managed to please a non D/N fan. That means I _must _be doing something right. 

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DevilsQt: This update soon enough for you? You're right about three years not being much in a lifetime, but in an eight chapter fic…*ashamed* I'm so happy you liked it. 

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HuntressDiana: Humorous? Me? Are you sure _you're _not the one telling a joke? *grins* Thanks for the review! Volney had the painting because he'd been asked to do it ages ago, and it had been long finished. I'm sure I mentioned that…

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Elvencherry07: I liked the reference to Neal, too. *smiles* I'm so happy you think I've got everyone in-character.

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CrazyHorseGirl88: always a pleasure to please!

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Heather Montgomery: Hez, you flatterer! I'm not brilliant, and you know it. I'm simply obsessed. *snickers*

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Daine: I really hope this chapter satisfies you. Thanks for reviewing!

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Girl, Called Candice: I'd pinch you, for not reviewing chapter three of HC; MS, but you're too nice, for reviewing _this_. Your support is appreciated immensely. 

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Juniper Holly: Thanks for the review, and the critique! I doubt turning into a bird would have helped much, as the kitten would probably be terrified out of it's stupor and jump at the sight of it, but I see what you mean about Daine being able to compel it. *hits head with hand* Silly me!

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Caitie: My dear, you are far too good for my ego. You do me no favours by improving my self-esteem in leaps and bounds and making my head swell up! *hugs* Thank you!

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AB-Scribere: Two reviews, Jen? Goodness, you made my day. As for making a mountain over a literary molehill, well…it's fin. You should try it sometime. This expansion on a one-line mention has made over 15, 000 words! 

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Shadowcat15: You didn't want to wait another three years? Well, your wish is my command! *smiles*


	9. Epilogue

**Focus, an Epilogue**

_K. Ryan, 2005_

* * *

Author's Note: I thought this was dead, but it wasn't. Finally, after four or five years, I finally have a clear conscience. Merry Christmas.

* * *

A courtyard to the Mage's Wing, the Royal Palace, Corus, Tortall

* * *

"Lynnie, stoppit!"

"Don't you call me Lynnie!"

"_Lynnie_."

"Die."

"Ma-ama…"

Eight-year-old Rikash Salmalìn sat in the dirt and tried not to cry. His sister, Sarra, was standing over him. Neither of the two children could really remember how they had ended up like this, but it didn't matter. She had pulled his hair; he had called her Lynnie. That was that—it was war.

"Mama can't hear you, Ri-i-kkie," the older girl taunted, taking Rikash's long golden curls into her nail-bitten hand and pulling again.

Rikash jerked his head forward and glared. "You're mean," he said.

"You're stupid, and you look like a girl."

"I do _not _look like a girl!" The boy got to his feet and poked his sister. "Lynnie Big-Nose."

Sarra growled, and Rikash was almost sure that he glimpsed extra teeth.

"You're not _allowed_," he said, triumphant. "You're not _allowed _to do the shape thing."

"Who says I'm doing any shape thing?"

More teeth. Rikash sighed and looked at his feet. "I wish you _was_ allowed," he muttered. "Then you could be a bird an' _fly away_."

"Stupid."

Rikash kicked out, aiming hard for Sarra's shins with his new boots. "Go _aw—"_

"That's quite enough now, don't you think?"

For Sarralyn and Rikash, the air had turned into the cold, lumpy soup their father's housekeeper made when they all lived in the tower off Pirate's Swoop. It kept them suspended, stuck fast. They couldn't speak, but they could still see and hear, and they recognized the over-cheerful, warm voice and the tall, _tall _figure that walked towards them.

Numair let Rikash down first, who shook his head once and then launched into a purple-faced babble.

"Speak slower, please."

"But…but…_shape thing_—my _hair_—all I said…big nose—but she _does_—and there was **_teef_!**"

"Even slower."

Rikash sighed. "It's not fair."

"No," said Numair. Rikash giggled as his father picked him up and held him with one long, sympathetic arm. "Not much is, my boy."

There was a moment of understanding silence before, "shouldn't we let Sarra down?"

The betrayal was terrible. "No!"

Numair laughed. "Why ever not, Rikash?" he asked.

Oh, as if he didn't know the answer. The boy shuddered.

"_Papa_," he wailed. "Because it's _not fair_."

"But things _aren't_ fair, child." Numair kissed him on the forehead, all solemn, but then he had to grin. "Therefore, everything we do is never _going _to be fair."

Rikash groaned. "You're talking stupid."

"It's a natural philosophy."

"That's _really _stupid."

With his free hand, Numair clicked his fingers. "It often tends to be, yes," he murmured, his eldest child now free and glaring at him, a picture of skinny, offended dignity with dark hair.

"Da, you're mean," she said, rubbing her nose.

"Of course I am, sweetling. I'm where you get it from. Simple inheritance."

Sarra spluttered; Numair absently stroked her hair.

"Since, Rikash," he said eventually, breaking the tableau, "you seem to have decided that today you're a baby enough to name-call, and _you_, Sarra, are still doing the immature and _unoriginal_ thing in response—threatening death and," here, their father turned suddenly serious, "magical workings that you have been expressly _forbidden_ to perform—it appears that I will have to do something with the two of you."

Sarra gulped. "I'll clean my room…"

Numair responded with raised eyebrows. "Impressive," he said. "However, I was thinking more along the lines of…glaciers."

Rikash whimpered. "One of the big ones?"

"Oh, no. A small one. So small that you'll be squeezed in _together_, under all the ice, for the next three millennia or so. You see, I can make sure you live that long—"

"Hmph! Magic on the children again, Numair?"

Volney Rain, who had as much right to escape to warm palaces and warm rooms during the ghastly cold weather as any other dedicated citizen, thank you ever so much, used two canes, now. He'd painted stripes on them, and zigzag patterns, in many different colours, the main two being a burning orange and a particularly lurid turquoise. He leant on them heavily, his lined, blotched fingers bent over the heads like claws most of the time these days, though he could still pry them away. His hair was still white, his copper-framed spectacles still bent and green with age and home-repairs. Over the years, his eyebrows had whitened, too, and he had become even thinner and smaller, but his voice still carried and his smile was still evil. "I never had to—mmph—resort to magic with children, mmph-hmph."

"Volney," said Numair, turning to face the tiny man. "You never _had _children."

"Precisely."

"And even if you did, you don't have magic."

Volney sniffed. "Wouldn't need it," he said. "Mmph-hmph. I'd give them something _useful_ to do."

"Of course."

"Of course. Hmph."

Numair groaned. "Rain, you're too ancient to toy with me, I need to get back inside—"

"—Get back inside to the mage's council when you'd much rather be with your wife, yes—"

"—And I _cannot_ do that when—"

"—when your beloved offspring have been replaced by evil little changelings—no offence to you, Sarralyn—who can't, mmph, be left alone."

Numair didn't groan again. This time he stayed silent for a count of ten.

Thirteen.

Fifteen.

Twenty-three.

Then, finally, "Don't you _ever _tire of doing that?"

Volney grinned and Sarra giggled, looking at the strangled, defeated expression on her father's face. "Never," he said. "Mmph-hmph."

"No laughing, fiend," Numair was talking to all three of them, but the words were addressed to his daughter. "What am I doing to do with you?"

"Don't ask me," Volney muttered. "Not my fault that you ended up with a case of hellions. Painful little beggars, hellions, _and _you can't get rid of them."

"What's hellions?" this was from Rikish. "Do they make you sick?"

Numair didn't hear him—although Sarra, who had something of an extended vocabulary, took this opportunity to whisper, 'stupid!' His expression had taken on a slightly glazed cast, something his two children recognized already as his 'Da's-gone-off-somewhere' look. "You know," he said, smiling. "It really _is _your fault, Volney."

"Mmph-hmph. Explain. Now."

"If you hadn't painted that miniature…"

Volney laughed, hard. "Oh, _that._ Preserve us, I never did understand how you managed to get to it and actually, mmph-hmph, engage in procreation, considering you were never man enough to even ask her to sit for it herself."

The children were, by now, bemused. It was Numair's turn to laugh. "So, your work made a man of me."

"Ha. Temporarily and after… what, exactly? A seven-to-ten year interim?"

"Something like that, perhaps. What this comes down to now, since we have established this, is that it really _is _your fault that I've managed to stay in a relationship long enough to, as you say, 'engage', and to produce two hellions. So," Numair smiled, sweetly, "you do, _actually_, owe me."

"I am not even going to attempt to fathom how you worked that out."

The smile faded. "Please, Volney? I need you to look after them."

"Oh, no. I am not going to subject myself to the results of your lacksidasical parenting."

"Ugh, _no_, Da!" shrieked Sarra. "He's _old_."

"And I'm _old_!"

"Age," Numair pleaded, putting Rikash back on the ground beside the ancient artist, "brings wisdom?"

"Of course it does! I'm saying _no_. Hmph!"

"Do I need to beg?"

Volney smirked. "I thought—mmph-hmph—that you already were."

"I'll go down on my knees."

That declaration brought fourth a cackle. "You'll set off your arthritis."

"I haven't—"

"You do, my boy, you just don't know it yet. Come on, hellions."

"I…what?"

"Are your children _deaf_, Numair?" Volney waved one of his canes in the air, menacing. Rikash, who couldn't believe the effect this scary old man had on his father, watched with wide-eyed astonishment. "Since you have surrendered your progeny into my clutches, mmph-hmph, they'd best come with me to ensure that you end up with at least some work done, mmph-hmph."

Over all the years the two men had been sharing exchanges; it was always Numair who ended up looking, and feeling, grateful. "You're getting soft, Rain."

Volney glowered, and then shrugged. "Enough of this. Come on, children. Keep up, else I'll keep you on either side of me and use the two of _you _as crutches."

Rikash laughed. "But Lynnie's taller than me!"

"Hmph. It'll be easy to wear her down," Volney said calmly as Numair watched them walk away. "And call her Lynnie again and I'll take your teeth out and grind them for pigment—and same to you, Sarra, if you look smug, mmph-hmph?"

"Oh," said Rikash.

"Oh," said Sarra.

"Well done," said Volney.

The last thing Numair heard before heading back the way he had come was his son's piping voice.

"You talk even stranger than papa_."_

"You gave them to _Volney?_"

* * *

It was early evening and dark already in Corus, there being only a week to Midwinter. Veralidaine Sarrasri, who had gone to the trouble of doubling her name when she had finally married but still never quite thought of herself that way, leaned into the curve of her husband's arm even as she glared up at him.

Numair, sheepish now, smiled—brushing greying-brown curls from her face. "Not permanently," he said.

"That's fair reassuring."

"Oh, come on, magelet. They won't scar from prolonged exposure."

"You're assuming," Daine murmured, "that it's the kits I'm worried about."

Numair stopped walking to press a kiss to her forehead. "Of course you're worried," he said. "You always are. So am I."

"Things are going to be _interesting _when Sarra's old enough for courting," said Daine. Now, she was grinning.

Numair winced, and started up again, steering her to the quarter in the palace that now finally housed its longest-serving and least-interested court artist, twenty-three years after they had first been set up. "Enough. Wicked words."

"Yet so true."

They walked in an old, companionable silence the rest of the way, half-listening out for screams.

"Mama, mama!"

A gleaming, shining-eyed creature of kingfisher-blue hurtled out to meet them, crying out in the voice of their son.

By the time chubby blue arms had wrapped around Daine's waist, only to leave streaked-blue stains as they slowly pulled away, they had realised that this _was _their son.

"Odds bobs, Rikash! What have you been…doing?"

The painted imp grinned. He was slippery and luminous. "I made art!" he said.

"Mmph-hmph. Only thing to do, after he got that paint all over himself."

Volney had followed his young charge more slowly, and was now standing just inside the door, leaning more heavily than ever on his garish canes. "I told you, Numair," he said, smirking. "I told you I'd have them doing something useful. Get in here and have a look."

Volney's palace rooms, white and unslept in for so long, were now a glorious chaos redolent with turpentine and gum-mastic and earthy dry-pigment. The now much-faded, but always recognisable, portrait of the (eventually) late Venezia of Genlith took up an entire wall. There was a half-painted miniature boat hanging lopsidedly from another, its sail-cloth enlivened by images of pirates that were too wicked and clever to be frightening. The ceiling appeared to be yellow with orange and green spots, while sketches flowed like water from desk drawers and out of cupboards.

The most startling thing, however, was a blue silhouette that now filled the first space on what had been the last empty wall. It was Rikash-sized and Rikash-shaped.

"_See_?"

Daine's smile was faint and amazed. "I see," she said.

"I—mmph-hmph—needed some blue," said Volney, watching it all. "Don't step on your daughter, Numair."

"Oh?—_Oh_." Mounds of paper shifted, and Sarralyn, back against a small chair, her legs tucked under her, looked up. She had a stick of charcoal in her mouth. More of it smudged her forehead and the tops of her cheeks. On a scrap of paper was a wobbly, but rather delicate and certainly well-shaped, sketch of the wooden boat with pirate sails.

"Did you draw that, love?"

Sarra's dark, heavy eyebrows came together in a glare. Her mouth tightened around the charcoal. "It's not finished, yet!" she snapped.

"Mmph-hmph!" Volney smiled indulgently at the whole scene. "No disturbing the artist at work," he said.

Numair, blushing just a little, bowed his head. "Forgive me, Great One?"

Sarra shrugged and kept working.

Numair pulled Daine close again, heedless of the blue paint that had stuck to her from Rikash's gleeful attentions. He bent down and buried his face in her hair.

"I never…" he said, slowly. "I never really understand how all this happened, magelet. You and I…these two…she can draw and she's _ours_, and…how did this all happen, again?"

Volney snorted. "So _emotional_. It's unbearable to think about how cursed _unbearable_, hmph, you'd be, Numair, if you, Daine, had just gone and died at sixteen from that fever."

Numair, still holding Daine, straightening up slightly to kiss her, shuddered.

"Exactly. In the end, Master Salmalìn, _you _owe _me_. Mmph-hmph!"

It was nearly Midwinter, and all was good with the world.


End file.
